She shifted uneasily from foot to foot, feeling the movement of her toes inside the huge boots, the way the many layers of down and fleece muffled her body and wrapped her limbs. New gear: Anna didn’t trust it. Nor did she like parties where she had to dress up. The invitation to participate in the long-running wolf/moose study on Isle Royale had come down from Rocky’s superintendent, couched in words no woman could resist: “How would you like to snowshoe over rough terrain, collecting blood-fat ticks and moose piss?”

Being a true romantic, Anna had said she would adore it. Rocky Mountain would soon be dealing with the prey/predator issue. Not through any sudden enlightenment of the state legislature, but because the recovery of the magnificent and much-maligned animals had been rapid. Wolves were reinhabiting territories they’d been extirpated from for a century or more.

Anna had reason to know the expected wolves were already in the park and no reason whatsoever to share the knowledge. At least not till the pups were old enough to fend for themselves. Wolf/moose management was about to top Rocky’s list of wildlife issues, and there was no better classroom for studying it than Isle Royale.

“We’re set,” the pilot said. Anna climbed the two paw-sized steps on the Beaver’s wheel pant to get into the high cockpit, no mean feat in boots the size of snowshoes.

“Need help with your safety belt?” The pilot was stiff and edgy, his United States Forest Service uniform so crisp that Anna, accustomed to the rumpled, sweat-stained versions she came across in the field, had, at first glance, mistaken it for a military uniform.

“No,” she said shortly. She’d flown on search and rescues, forest fires and animal surveys, more times than she could count before the pilot graduated from high school. Annoyed at herself for being annoyed, she fumbled at her safety harness. She was as awkward a bundle as an Iowa schoolboy waiting for the bus in January.